


Damn This World (for what it's done to me)

by VioletLopez



Series: Dear Evan Hansen drabbles [4]
Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Connor Deserves Happiness, Connor and Jared have sex, Connor dies, Consensual Underage Sex, Drug Use, I hate myself, I need sleep, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Going to Hell, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Oops, Poor Connor, Poor Life Choices, Recreational Drug Use, Referenced Sex, Sorry Not Sorry, Tears, The Author Regrets Everything, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, What Have I Done, What Was I Thinking?, also Evan appears for about 0.00002 seconds, also why is Jared Kleinman/Michael Mell a pairing, but Michael isn't in this fic so you don't need to prepare yourself yet, he doesn't get it here, honestly what the fuck, i don't think you can drink while sleeping, i want both, i was going to write a drabble, i would suggest alcohol to go with this angstfest, i'm gonna do my best, i'm only sorry to Connor Murphy, i'm reading the tag suggestions and questioning everything i know, in Jared's car, instead it's a six page character study, it was going to be about why Jared and Connor ended their realtionship from Paper, kill me now, or alchohol, prepare yourselves, shameless references to 'Paper', then i can be with Connor, time for the trigger warnings, what even am i, what the fuck, why was I not aware of this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 18:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11213514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletLopez/pseuds/VioletLopez
Summary: The world has no time for Connor Murphy.(read the tags)





	Damn This World (for what it's done to me)

Connor Murphy wasn’t just a stoner, or just a freak, or just the kid that threw a printer in second grade. He wasn’t just the Murphy family disappointment. He wasn’t just the fuck up no one wanted, or the boyfriend Jared couldn’t love, or the snarky edgelord everyone seemed to see. He wasn’t just the cigarette smoke or the red rimmed eyes or the carved up wrists.

Connor Murphy was broken, he was hurting, he was the boy that was falling into an endless spiraling void of depression and anxiety. He was the slapped son, the scorned brother. He was the kid that had been forced into a fucked up life, the boyfriend that was too scared to love, the boy that struggled to keep a weak emotional shield against the world’s shit. He was the smell of smoke and almonds, wild curls and bright blue eyes, pretty pale skin and dimples.

Connor Murphy used to have hope. He used to look at the world around him and see the newborn birds, the rippling pines, the endless blue of the sky. He used to grin so wide it covered his whole face and let words tumble out of his mouth without thinking and laugh almost more than he blinked.

When Connor Murphy was five years old, his father slapped him across the face and told him to shut up because no one cared. And fucking Larry’s face was sewn into an angry frown he hadn’t seen before and his eyes felt hot and his cheek was stinging, so he just nodded and scuttled away. He huddled in a corner and convinced himself that daddy had only been joking, that any moment he would come in and pick him up and smile and put an ice pack on his face like on his fourth birthday when he fell off his bike and got all scratched up. Everything would be alright.

His father never came, so that night he curled up in his blankets and murmured that daddy was only kidding, only kidding, and daddy was sorry but people made daddy nervous like they made Connor nervous and he had that sick feeling in his stomach and the buzzing in his head and he just couldn’t apologize because when he opened his mouth the words stuck to the roof of his mouth and instead what came out was a jumble of everything he didn’t want to say.

But that was ok. Connor understood that. Daddy would apologize. But then daddy didn’t apologize, and the only consolation he could give himself anymore was that it wouldn’t happen again.

It happened again. And it didn’t stop happening, so Connor shrunk back from the world to avoid being hurt, to avoid that sickening disappointment that he always seemed to induce in people. But it wasn’t enough, it was never enough because the glares kept blazing and the fists kept flying and the words kept spilling out of him like a damn faucet he just couldn’t shut off. Fading wasn’t working, he couldn’t disappear because he couldn’t fucking silence himself, so instead he just flipped the switch on the faucet, focused all his energy on what he was saying. He micromanaged every word that dripped into the world, reflecting in his own words the insults his father spat at him, the disinterest of his mother and the anger from his sister and the overwhelming disgust from the world. He didn’t let anything else leak out, the pain or the weakness or the ever-present thoughts that he was a useless worthless hated nuisance and why shouldn’t he just disappear- He kept it inside and eventually it faded into a constant fog of white noise floating in his head, to thick to think through.

One day when he was thirteen, Connor was walking to school, his black converse slapping the pavement with more force than was needed, mimicking the stomps fading away from his door after Zoe yelled at him last night. He didn’t remember why - he’d used her hairbrush or knocked over her nail polish or something stupid like that. His gaze was fixed firmly on the ground. The look of disinterest was the only thing he didn’t have to fake. The white noise in his head numbed him.  
All the sudden he paused and looked around. He remembers how he used to look at the world - chirping birds and rippling pines and blue skies - and a sardonic laugh tumbles out of his mouth because how naive had he been? The world is not what he   
thought it was. The world is the armadillo that’s been run over in the road and the rotting log in his backyard and the stormclouds approaching on the horizon. The world does not have time for what it does not need.

The world does not need Connor Murphy. The world does not have time for him.

Thirteen year old Connor keeps walking and ignores the sick feeling curling in his stomach.

When he was fourteen, he snuck out of the house for the first time. It was one in the morning, and he just felt trapped in his room, stuck alone with the fresh bruises and the white noise and the angry charge the house seemed to be enveloped in. He didn’t have any particular destination in mind - he gets on his bike and rides down the road, half-hoping a car will come out of the darkness and collide with him.

It doesn’t, and he finds himself at the old apple orchard that he and Zoe used to love, back before she realized he was a useless worthless hated nuisance -

Back before she hated him. Connor wanders through the orchard and lets the white noise in his head consume him so that he grows numb and detached, just watching his feet rustle the grass. All the sudden he notices how bright the moon is and he’s staring up at it and when did he lie down? He lets his eyes trail over the night sky, thinking that the stars look very small from Earth and that they must be very far away from each other, to far to talk. Isolated and alone in the great chasm of the universe.

Connor almost feel jealous, and then he realizes how stupid it is to be jealous of a star. He shakes his head and leaves the orchard, more annoyed than before. 

He doesn’t go back. The night sky doesn’t seem so beautiful anymore.

He doesn’t stop sneaking out though, and one night when he’s sixteen he’s wandering down the road, hand shoved in his pockets and earbuds shoved in his ears, and something hits him, knocks him to his knees. His hands sting and he frowns, turns around and it’s a car, sitting there with it’s headlights shining into his eyes. The driver scrambles out and comes to his side, puts a hand on his shoulder. Connor just stares dumbly.

He recognizes the boy from school - James or Jarell or something like that - but he doesn’t recognize the panic in his eyes or the apology on his lips. Why is he apologizing? Is it because he didn’t run Connor over? He’s sorry not to be the one to finally get rid of Connor Murphy?

Jared (that’s his name, Jared Kleinman) shakes his head, looking a bit panicked. Connor realizes he voiced those thoughts out loud.

Jared smells like pot, and Connor wonders if the red rimming his eyes is from drugs or the tear tracks carved down his cheeks. Jared offers a hand, and Connor takes it, ignoring the sting as his ripped palm was pulled. Jared offers him a ride home, and distantly Connor wonders if he should let Jared drive them when he’s high, but he nods anyway. He’s not sure why.

They don’t go to Connor’s house. They end up parked on a bridge by the edge of town and he’s offered a bottle of something, he doesn’t know what, and he accepts. They sit there and drink in silence and soon Connor’s mind begins to blur, and all he can think is Jared Jared Jared. It takes him a moment to notice that his eyes are fixed on Jared’s lips. It takes him a moment to notice that Jared is staring at his.

It takes him even longer to notice that they’re leaning closer, dangerously close and then too close too close but he doesn’t want to lean back and so Connor Murphy has his first kiss at sixteen in a car on a bridge, drunk out of his mind. Jared tastes like pot and salt.

They stay that close for a long long time, and the next morning Connor wakes up in the backseat of Jared’s car, the sun shining through the window and lighting up their bare skin in gritty detail. Jared’s taste is still imprinted on his tongue, and he decides that it isn’t too bad.

They don’t go to school that day, and by the time Connor goes home he’s sure that he will be tasting pot and salt for the rest of his life.

The thought brings a smile to his face.

He and Jared ignore each other at school, when they pass each other in the halls or when they are seated next to each other in Human Geo, but when night falls they sneak out and drive to the bridge. Sometimes they sit and talk, sometimes they drink beer and cry, and sometimes they lean close, go into the intimate closeness that they only experience with each other.

Connor knows now Jared’s taste, the taste of pot and salt. Connor knows now Jared’s moans, the affection reflected in them that only he is allowed to hear. Connor knows now Jared’s sobs, the helpless loneliness that he uses Connor to satisfy. Connor knows now Jared’s laugh, choked in smoke and pain. Connor knows now Jared’s smile, the only lie he can manage when it is night and he is broken open. Connor knows now the feeling of love.

One night, when they have finished off all the bottles they brought, Jared pulls out a joint and smokes. He doesn’t roll down the window and that is how Connor gets high for the first time. He becomes addicted right then and there, because it cleared the white noise from his head and all the sudden colours seem brighter and sounds are sharper and it’s like a veil has been lifted from the world.

It is the summer before senior year that Connor whispers an idea against Jared’s lips, that Jared nods and turns on the car. It is the early morning of June ninth, and they sneak into the Murphy’s house, creep into Connor’s room, tumbling into his bed to feel that closeness again.

When Connor wakes up, Jared is gone.

Connor reaches for the phone to call, but decides against it and falls back against the pillows. His eyes feel hot and his heart stings like his cheek did the first time his father hit him.  
He never feels Jared’s lips again, but his mouth still tastes like pot and salt.

Connor Murphy is broken now, isolated and alone in the chasm of the universe. He remembers when he craved this and a sardonic laugh tumbles from his lips, because now that he has it all he wants is to feel Jared close to him again.

Jared and Connor are no longer ignoring each other, because now cutting remarks are being exchanged, and glares as sharp as the edges of their heart.

His heart, Connor reminds himself. His heart and only his because why would Jared leave if his heart was jagged and torn like Connor’s is? Connor’s heart is too torn to cry, and now he spend his nights huddled in his room, revulsion cold in his throat as he lets the thoughts run through his mind that he is a useless worthless hated nuisance and he has never believed it this strongly before.

It is the night before senior year starts that Connor sneaks out for the last time. He has his hands shoved in his pockets and his earbuds shoved in his ears, and his eyes are fixed firmly on the ground. His toe knocks against someone else’s and then suddenly he’s staring at Jared Kleinman and the other boy looks so small, staring up at him with red rimmed eyes and pale cheeks and wearing a black hoodie that’s far too big for him, one he must have taken that night in Connor’s room.  
Suddenly Connor feels sick and he stumbles backward, running home and trying to forget the broken look on Jared’s face that he’s seen too many times before. The everlasting taste on his tongue seems stronger, and Connor spends the night staring at the ceiling and wishing that he had never met Jared fucking Kleinman.

The next day is hell. Jared’s words are sharper than usual, piercing through the white noise and shredding Connor inside. He chooses his words carefully, reveling in the fear that blooms in Jared’s eyes.

Later he is in the computer lab, and he doesn’t remember what sets him off. It is something that turns the faucet on, and this time he lets it all pour out, the insults and the disinterest and the anger and the pain and the weakness and he is becoming overwhelmed by the thoughts that he is a useless worthless hated nuisance -

The fear in Evan’s eyes doesn’t satisfy him like it did with Jared. He feels sick.

That night he sits in his bed and lets the white noise flow through him. He doesn’t bother smoking, doesn’t bother combating the numbness. He knows how this night will end.

For the first time since July ninth, Connor Murphy smiles.

He contemplates if he should write a note, but decides against it because who would he leave it for anyway?

He finds a bottle of pills in the bathroom, the anxiety prescription he hasn’t taken since he was fourteen. He makes his bed and piles all his things in a cardboard box (he doesn’t have any more than the necessities - fucking Larry.) No point in making someone else do it.

The last thing Connor Murphy does is laugh, because he can taste pot and salt for the rest of his life.

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to hell.


End file.
